


The People We Became

by Make_It_Worse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Hank and Connor are fine, Hurt/Comfort, If You Squint - Freeform, Illnesses, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Murder, Implied/Referenced Sex, Kissing, Love, M/M, Pandemics, Post-Apocalypse, Slice of Life, Survival, Survival Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23828242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: Connor inhales with every passing second, each thicker and harder to draw in until it feels like he’s inhaling tar, heavy and suffocating, directly into his lungs. His heart hammers and his fingers tremble as unspent adrenaline forces its way to the surface, urging him to act, to run, to scream, to attack until—Two soft knocks.So quiet, Connor almost misses them over the frantic throbbing of his heart. He tries his best to silence his steps, but his feet always seem clumsy compared to Hank. Hank was the better tracker, better hunter. Connor had all the intelligence in the world and it had amounted to less than the meager bag of beans they’d managed to harvest their first year.His fist shakes as he raises it and waits.And waits.And remembers.The memories come less often now and with less clarity. Time and terror had a way of eroding happiness down to a vague impression of an emotion he used to know.--Connor and Hank decide to ride out a mysterious illness afflicting the nation in idyllic quarantine. A quaint farmhouse, quiet hours kissing in a field, love. Everything will be ok, right?--Quarantine inspired me to write. So, naturally, I had to Make it Worse.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor, Markus/Simon (Detroit: Become Human)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 69





	The People We Became

_Five hours, seven minutes, 13 seconds_.

The numbers tick with agonizing precision as Connor’s eyes blur with fatigue. Hank had been gone longer than this before to make an exchange, but it was definitely outside the limits of a normal trip.

Another hour later and Connor’s gnawed his cuticles raw with worry. The callous on his thumb goes next and his gaze begins to shift with increasing frequency to the rifle pegged over the door and the spare keys hanging on the wall.

He could fire up the old truck and go looking. Hank could be hurt. He could be lost. The trade could’ve gone belly up or—

 _No_.

Hank needs him here. If Hank comes back and Connor is gone…

It’s happened once before. It’s not an experience Connor wants to repeat. It had cost them dearly to fall behind on chores, to break the routine. Fields needed planting, animals needed herding, and hours needed watching. It’s a two-man job and Hank needs Connor _here_ so he waits.

Twilight creeps across the lawn, beating back the afternoon sun, but Connor wills it to stay a little longer. A few more minutes of sunlight; a few more minutes to hope.

Connor’s ears throb as they take in every sound. A screech owl sends his fingers flying for the gun at his hip. It’s been empty for days, but it’s a habit he can’t seem to break. He jerks hard enough to topple off a worn barstool when a branch snaps somewhere in the rapidly darkening woods.

He and Hank had learned the hard way that it was better to go it alone—to keep other people at a distance—but moments like this made Connor reconsider.

He almost misses the first muffled protest of grass beneath uneasy hooves. The hairs on the back of his neck crackle with electric tension and his fingers flex against the dated laminate counter before Connor’s conscious mind catches up to what his senses are screaming. If he wasn’t as keyed up as he is, he would have dismissed it as the woods coming to life as true night inked out the last rays of twilight.

He strains to extend his range of hearing, resists the urge to pull back the curtains to peer into the yard between wooden planks and iron bars. It would be foolish to risk showing his face and gain nothing for it. By now, the yard is blacker than the dirt under his nails with only the stars to illuminate the vaguest hint of shapes.

Connor inhales with every passing second, each thicker and harder to draw in until it feels like he’s inhaling tar, heavy and suffocating, directly into his lungs. His heart hammers and his fingers tremble as unspent adrenaline forces its way to the surface, urging him to act, to run, to scream, to attack until—

Two soft knocks.

So quiet, Connor almost misses them over the frantic throbbing of his heart. He tries his best to silence his steps, but his feet always seem clumsy compared to Hank. Hank was the better tracker, better hunter. Connor had all the intelligence in the world and it had amounted to less than the meager bag of beans they’d managed to harvest their first year.

His fist shakes as he raises it and waits.

And waits.

And remembers.

The memories come less often now and with less clarity. Time and terror had a way of eroding happiness down to a vague impression of an emotion he used to know.

The last happy summer, those last few weeks not knowing what was to come, had been blissful to the point of embarrassment. No one should’ve been that happy given the state of things. People everywhere were sick—some were dying—but things seemed to be getting better.

Quarantine wasn’t so bad on the farm. It had belonged to some relative of Connor’s he only knew through photographs. His family had long since turned their noses up to manual labor after discovering ventures that offered more profit. Still, they held on to the farm. Whether to brag about their multiple properties or out of sentimental value, Connor was never sure.

He’d suggested they retreat to the quiet peace of the place while politicians screamed and pointed fingers. They could pass the time planting a little garden or fishing in a stream Connor knew the path to by heart.

His favorite moment before everything changed, before everything went dark, was the day they lost the internet. It wasn’t overly hot yet and Connor itched to do something since he couldn’t mindlessly scroll away the afternoon on social media.

Hank had flushed worse than a tomato before suggesting they pick blackberries. Connor had cupped Hank’s cheek, thumbing at the edge of his growing beard. Of course, he would pick berries with Hank. He’d smiled hard enough to make the corners of his lips hurt from stretching. Hank’s flights of romantic fancy were rare but endearing.

By the time they’d picked the first bush clean, Connor’s fingertips were stained purple and the cracks of Hank’s lips bore the signs of snacking more than gathering. The sun had yawned to its full height, sending shimmering waves of heat to scorch the ridge of Connor’s nose and the slope of Hank’s shoulders.

Hank had laughed when Connor dragged the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping away sweat and leaving blackberry streaks in its stead. Connor had followed Hank’s gaze to his hands before swearing under his breath. Yanking at his soiled shirt to frantically wipe at the stain before it set, he’d barely noticed Hank shifting in his peripheral.

He heard the _thunk_ of the bucket, saw Hank kneel. When Hank awkwardly cleared his throat, Connor wondered how long he’d been waiting for Connor to look at him.

Elbow resting casually on one knee, Hank held out a frayed, much-loved, and very familiar handkerchief. He always had it on him, ready to wipe up some spill or catch an errant sneeze. It was cleaner than Connor had ever seen it sans the plum-colored stains leaching from Hank’s fingers into the sun-warmed cotton threads.

“I can fix that,” Hank’s voice has been low and it hummed across the space between them before trembling down Connor’s spine, “If you want me to.” Hank’s gaze never left Connor’s face even as Connor stared at Hank’s out-turned hand.

A ring gleamed impossibly bright, wrapped in a delicate knot at the corners.

Connor had tackled Hank right there in the grass, catching Hank off guard. Hank had laughed, his chest barreling with the force of it and pushing Connor deeper into the meadow.

No one in the world knew they were engaged.

No one in the world knew they’d left their mark on that field, bare-skinned and glistening with sweat as much from the heat of the sun as from the pressing of lips, bodies, limbs.

No one in the world knew and now they never would. Not since everything had gone to hell.

He still wore the ring. After all this time, after the weeks of confusion, the months of denial, the years of survival, they might as well be married. Not that it mattered.

 _It matters to me_.

He remembers whispering the words in the dark the first night Hank succumbed to the madness around them and turned to drink instead of the man he’d asked to marry him. It was the first and last time he had to physically fight Hank and it hadn’t been easy.

The bruises faded from view but they left scars on his heart. Connor barely noticed them anymore. Hank had taken one look at Connor’s face through bleary, hungover eyes and stumbled to the sink. He made it in time to vomit up his shame before rinsing it down the drain with the last of his Black Lamb.

Connor had hoped that would be the darkest of their nights. He would laugh at his naiveté if he could remember how to make the sound.

One soft knock. Two gentle taps of a knuckle on wood.

Connor barely remembers to tap back the all-clear, to let Hank know he’s alright, before wrenching the door open with the full force of his strength. It opens just wide enough for Hank to pass through. It had been a tight squeeze when they first reframed the door, reinforcing it to the point where opening it was a chore. It made coming and going a pain, but it offered a modicum of safety from the insanity beyond their fields. Now, Hank can slip through it easily and his clothes hang on him like an ill-fitting mannequin.

Connor agitates, bouncing on his heels as Hank secures and bolts the dozen locks on their fortified door. Connor’s on him before Hank even rises to his full height, running his hands over Hank’s face, tearing the stitches in the seams of Hank’s shirt in his haste to pull it off.

“’m okay,” Hank tries to mumble, but he doesn’t offer any resistance as Connor strips him down. He knows the rules as well as Connor does.

Naked and pale under the dim light of Connor’s candle, Hank tries to scrub the memory of what delayed him from his brain.

Connor’s hand shakes badly enough that wax slops to the floor as he sets it down. They wind in relief through Hank’s shaggy hair, pulling their foreheads together as both listen to the sound of the other breathe.

Connor pulls back without relinquishing his grip, taking in the deep wrinkle between Hank’s eyebrows, “What happened?”

It was a familiar story by now. A horrible story. Hank gently untangles himself to collapse onto the couch.

“I got the stuff,” Hank says finally, “but we aren’t going to be trading with the Manfreds anymore.”

Connor’s mouth opens to ask a question he doesn’t want to know the answer to before snapping it closed again. He doesn’t need the nightmares.

“All of them?” The words sneak across his lips, but he can’t help it. He could never leave well enough alone when it came to the ones he knew before. He and Markus had been friends.

Hank shakes his head, but then shrugs, “Can’t be sure. Simon wouldn’t come near me. He dropped the bag and told me to do the same. Pulled a gun.”

Connor’s eyes go wide, but he holds his tongue. Simon may have been gentle and kind once upon a time, but the sickness had a way of changing people. Everyone had learned to be a little warier, a little less trustful.

“He doesn’t have it, far as I could tell,” Hank answers Connor’s unasked question. “None of the usual signs anyway, but I could see the smoke from the hill. He knew I knew. Told me, ‘Take the sack. It’s all we have. Don’t come back.’”

Hank falls silent, and Connor itches to press him for more. His heart had long since forgotten how to ache for the afflicted. He’d seen too many die. He’d seen too many succumb to the same disease trying to save their loved ones from it. In the end, they all burned the bodies. Still, it doesn’t explain why Hank had returned so late.

“What happened?” Connor asks again and Hank’s fingers tense against his knees.

“A quarter of a mile down the trail, I heard—I heard Simon scream,” Hank struggles to say the words. “Then a gunshot. Spooked the horse. She threw me and I had to hide.” Connor’s heart hammers with each passing word, his eyes growing wider than half dollar coins. It isn’t until his vision begins to go fuzzy at the corners that he realizes he’s forgotten to breathe.

He inhales sharply when Hank unpins the words lodged in his throat, “Markus has it. I saw him. He had the rash and his eyes—,” Hank shivers as he remembers Markus spotting him, one blue orb tracking him alongside an unnatural green one. “He had Simon’s gun. I think Carl—Simon—I think they’re gone.” He says the last word heavily and his next breath shakes, “I don’t think Simon had it in him to…he couldn’t—Not Markus.”

Connor grips Hank’s hand so tightly that his knuckles pop. He doesn’t say the words and neither does Hank. They go through the motions of checking for injuries anytime they cross paths with other people. Hank had made him promise he would do what he had to if Hank fell ill. That he wouldn’t risk the infection for a few more days with Hank before it devoured his mind.

Hank had made him promise, but Connor had lied. They both knew it.

They sit in silence until the sun rises. Hank might sleep, but Connor can’t be sure. He thought he’d managed to keep watch until a trilling bird startles him into abrupt consciousness. Hank’s hand rests on his thigh, trembling. Waiting.

Hank hadn’t said if he’d gotten away clean. Connor hadn’t asked if Markus was still a threat. He knows better. Hank wouldn’t have come back otherwise. Even without injuries, though, the infected could spread their contagion.

He forces his eyes upward, each millimeter feeling like sandpaper grit to his corneas. Connor pretends not to notice how Hank’s eyes dart to the rifle still hanging above the door. He sags in relief when he meets Hank’s clear, blue gaze.

It always started with the eyes. Within hours, one or both would shift like a kaleidoscopic, horrifying rainbow. A presage of the rash and the madness that would follow.

Without the internet, without radio, Hank isn’t sure if they’ll ever find out how things got this bad. He isn’t sure that anyone still alive even knows. He isn’t sure why he keeps fighting when their chances of survival grow bleaker with each loss.

Connor’s hand rests over Hank’s and the gold band catches the scant sunlight that filters into their farmhouse retreat.

_It matters to me._

Hank exhales his doubts, pulling Connor into a clumsy kiss that takes them both by surprise. Their lips move strangely as if the muscles there had atrophied along with the rest of the world.

It’s not a very good kiss. It might even be a bad kiss. But it tastes like buttery sunshine and sodden blackberries plump on the vine. It tastes like Connor and Hank remembers why he keeps fighting with each new dawn. He remembers why he wants to be alive.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


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